Ascension by Bonnie Cope

It was always dark. Sometimes Tilney felt like pouring a bucket of starfuel over her head and striking a match, just so she could have one bright moment in her life. Might be worth it. She took another drag from her contraband cigarette, making the tip glow orange in the dim corridor. All personnel aboard the Ascension were forbidden to smoke—it was hard enough to keep the air purified with 10,000 souls breathing in and out without adding smoke to the ship's atmosphere. Tilney exhaled.

At least Fleet One was due to refuel this weekend. That meant a party. The military seemed to throw parties upon the slightest of pretexts. Apparently morale was low. Tilney wasn't especially looking forward to the party, but she knew that Sara would probably talk her into going. It would end the way all parties did, with an indiscretion and a hangover. She felt tired just thinking about it. She pinched out her cigarette, slipping the stub into her pocket. No one ever threw anything away.

Everyone was still on break when she slipped back into the room. Sara, who disapproved of smoking and everything else against regulations, gave Tilney a sharp look. Tilney shrugged it off and went back to her station. They were threading fuses through plasma shells. It was a task that required intense concentration, steady hands, and needle-nosed pliers. They got a break every half hour because the psych-eval for this job rated the stress-level off the charts. Rumour said it was higher even than the active combat ratings. Everyone was on edge. Last week a girl pulled a wire too tight and blew her work station to hell. Tilney had been on the clean-up detail, scraping fingers and teeth and clumps of hair off the wall. She sat down at her work area and picked up her pliers, wondering what it looked like when the plasma shell exploded. Was there a bright light? Or did everything end in sudden darkness?

The next half hour was spent lacing the thin strong wire through the shells' mechanisms, pulling the fuses tight but not too tight. Finally the subdued bell that signaled the end of the day sounded. Everything was muted around this workspace. None of the workers' voices ventured above a hushed whisper, as if the sound waves would trigger disaster. Tilney sighed, gently placing her last plasma shell into its designated slot in the case, and joined the line of workers waiting to leave. Sara caught up to her before she reached the door.

“Are you going to the party tonight?” Sara asked, a little color leaking into her pale cheeks. Her brother, Liev, was a gunner in Fleet One, and Tilney knew she was excited to see him again.

“I don't know,” Tilney said. “I'm tired.”

“Come on,” Sara said. “What else are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Tilney said. That was the problem. When she was younger, the parties had seemed so exciting. Once the novelty had worn off, there was still the thrill of cutting loose—getting smashed, screaming with drunken laughter, dancing with strangers. Waking up the next morning, naked and hungover, in a strange bed, or, if she were unlucky, the floor or someplace even more unfortunate. Now even this excess felt lifeless.

“Just come to keep me company,” Sara said. “Please. I always feel so awkward around all those military guys.”

“Fine,” Tilney said, giving in. “But only for a little while.”

“Thanks,” Sara smiled. “It will be good for you. You've been down lately.”

“I'm just tired,” Tilney said. “The shifts seem longer than ever.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed. “The stress makes it seem that way.”

“I'm not so sure,” Tilney said. “How would we know if they switched the bells on us? They control the clocks that sound the hours as well. They could have us working overtime and we'd never know it.”

“Tilney! You can't say that kind of thing!” Sara said, her eyes wide. “You'll get into trouble. Besides, it would only slow down production if they overworked us. People will make mistakes.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Tilney said. “Listen, I'm gonna go. I'll see you later.”

“Bye,” Sara said, still frowning.

* * *

Tilney held her dress up against her collarbone with one hand and took a swallow from the bottle of whiskey she held in the other, savoring the burning sensation. The four inches she could see in the small mirror looked alright. She had salvaged the material from scraps she'd collected during a work rotation in the sewing rooms, and stitched up a simple halter dress during her breaks. The color, a dull gray, might be boring, but the fabric had an almost perfect tensegrity and could withstand extreme fluctuations in temperature. At least she would match all the boys in uniform.

She dropped the dress on the floor and crossed the room to look out the portal. Black nothing, as usual. She tipped the bottle back again, leaning her head against the smooth glass. It felt cool against her skin. A knock at her door startled her, and she leaned over to hit the release button. The door slid open to reveal Sara in a dark blue dress, looking pained. “Tilney! You are nowhere near ready to go!” Sara stepped into the small cubicle and confiscated the whiskey bottle. “Put on your dress!” she ordered. “I'll find your shoes.”

Tilney obeyed, stripping off her work clothes and pulling the gray dress over her head. The whiskey made her face numb and her fingers tingle. It took her three tries to step into the black pumps Sara held out for her, but finally they were on their way. Before they had even reached Deck 1, they could hear the music pounding. Sara held Tilney's arm to keep her from stumbling while they were scanned and waved into the barracks. The central mess hall had been cleared of tables and benches to make space for the crowd of people filling the room. Tilney headed straight for the alcohol, and managed to grab a jar of wine before Sara pulled her away.

“You better slow down,” Sara said. “You're going to regret this in the morning.”

“I can't hear you!” Tilney yelled. “The music is too loud!” She laughed and stumbled, bumping into a man and making him spill his drink. She clung to the front of his uniform for balance, still laughing. He looked down at her, slightly bemused.

“I'm so sorry,” Sara said, reaching to pry Tilney away. “Sometimes she gets out of control.”

“It's okay,” he said. “I'm Owen. Owen Cooper.” He reached over Tilney to shake hands with Sara, then offered his hand to Tilney, who relinquished her grasp on his clothing to grasp his hand.

“Owen Cooper?” Tilney said. “Aren't you famous? I saw you on the newsflash this morning. 37^th kill, congratulations.” She looked at his uniform, which was liberally sprinkled with medals. It was the custom for pilots to give their high kill medals to their wives or girlfriends, and she wondered if there was a girl wearing his.

“Well thanks,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Who are you?”

“I'm Tilney and this is my friend Sara,” Tilney gestured to Sara only to find that her friend was disappearing into the crowd, mouthing the words, “Give me a wave.” “I guess she had to go,” Tilney said.

“Seems that way,” Owen said. “Hey, you wanna go for a smoke?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tilney said. He took her hand and she followed him out of the crush of dancers. He knew his way around the barracks, and led her up a flight of stairs to a door which opened in response to his thumbscan. The lights came on when they stepped inside, revealing an unmade bed and a floor strewn with dirty uniforms and combat boots. “So,” he said. “This is my room. I didn't get a promotion after my thirtieth kill, but they did give me a bunk to myself.”

“That's nice,” Tilney said. “I guess.”

He kicked his shoes and clothes under the bunk and pulled the sheets straight, motioning for her to sit down. “I hope you weren't lying about the cigarettes,” Tilney said.

“No, I wasn't,” he looked a bit surprised. “I know it sounded like an excuse to get you alone. And it kind of was. I wanted to get out of there. But I wasn't lying about the smokes.” He dug around in his pockets until he produced a pack of cigarettes. A whole pack. He put one in her hand and took one for himself.

“Thanks,” she said, impressed. Her face was still numb and her fingers still tingled, but things seemed much clearer than they had at the party. They smoked for a while, then Owen broke the silence.“You're real pretty,” he said. Tilney leaned back to study him openly, since he was making no attempt to hide his own perusal. Owen Cooper wasn't bad looking himself, although she wouldn't describe him as gorgeous. His dark red hair was getting a bit long for regulations. His face was narrow, and his brown eyes and mouth were very regular, but his nose was very crooked which saved him from looking too feminine.

“How'd you break your nose?” she said.

“Which time? I've been pretty hard on it,” he grinned. “The first time was my first day of real flight training—just real basic stuff—and I came in too hot on the landing. I had to brake so sharp coming up on the end of the runway that I knocked myself out on the control board. I came to with blood all over my instruments—I could barely breathe, it was all down my throat—and my commander yelling in my face. I had to run four miles before he let me go to the infirmary to get my nose checked out. It's never been the same since.”

Tilney laughed. Her cigarette was nearly down to the filter, so she leaned over him to put it out next to his. He put his hand on her back, very lightly, and she turned towards him. She could feel his breath on her lips, and it seemed like they were already too close to pull back. So she didn't.

Their lips met, his dry and cracked, hers not much better. Teeth clicked against each other, scraped lips and tongues. He moved fast, his hand up her dress before the first time they broke for air. They skinned out of their clothes without dimming the lights, pushing aside the sheets. Then sex. Tilney stared over his shoulder at the ceiling as their skin slapped together, damp and sweaty. She felt more pain than pleasure, but he was really trying, so she kissed the top of his shoulder when it was within reach and tried to maintain eye-contact while she waited it out. Finally he was finished, and she let him lay still on top of her like a hot, heavy blanket. She stroked the back of his neck and had maternal feelings. She couldn't help it, he was so naked and defenseless, and so very bad at sex.

She sighed. It must have sounded more depressed than she'd meant, because Owen looked at her in concern. “What's wrong?”

She bit her lip. “Everything.”

“What?” He looked worried. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, not really,” she said. “It's just so pointless. I mean, I didn't even want to go to the party. They always end the same way, you know. Like this.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, clearly at a loss.

“Every day is exactly the same. Our work details are assigned, our meal-times are assigned, our housing and our free-time, what we have of it, is assigned. Everything is so scheduled and sterile—with no chance that anything new will ever happen. And it's always so fucking dark! It drives me crazy, I hate it!”

“Um,” Owen said. “I don't know what to say.”

Tilney laughed shakily and wiped her face with the back of her hand; it was wet with tears. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I really am out of control.”

“It's okay,” Owen said. “I don't mind.”

“Really?” Tilney was skeptical. “Most guys would.”

“Everyone breaks down. It happens,” he said, rolling off of her and getting out of bed. Tilney propped herself up on an elbow and watched as he rummaged under the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Come here,” he said. She climbed out of the bed and knelt beside him. He was holding a small ceramic pot which contained a small plant with rounded leaves. It was glowing faintly in the shadow cast by the bed-frame.

“What is it?” Tilney was captivated.

“It's a bioluminescent plant from Canis Majori. My mother was a biologist. She discovered this species on a field expedition, and she gave me a cutting. I don't even know what it's called,” he said. “I wasn't paying attention. But it reminds me of her.”

“It's beautiful,” Tilney said.

“You said you hated the dark. Maybe this will help,” he handed her the pot. “You know, you wouldn't be able to see the plant glow if it wasn't dark.”

“You're giving it to me?” Tilney said. “I thought it reminded you of your mother!”

“Well, you'll have to let me come and visit,” he said. “See how it's doing. But really, I can't take care of it. I'm always gone on missions, and I don't have the time to look after it.”

“Thank you,” Tilney said. “Really.”

* * *

The next morning Tilney awoke to an unfamiliar alarm and an empty room. She squinted, finding even the Ascension's dim light too bright for her hangover. Owen was gone, but the plant was still there. She searched for her clothes among the specimens covering Owen's floor and managed to find her dress and shoes, but was forced to give up her underwear as a lost cause. Her hair felt tangled and snarled, but she didn't care enough to fix it. She suffered a brief moral struggle over whether to take the plant, since Owen had been drunk when he'd given it to her and obviously hadn't cared enough to see her in the morning. In the end she padded back to her room with the ceramic pot tucked under one arm and her shoes clutched in her other hand.

When she reached her room, she put the pot carefully on the edge of her bed and stumbled into the shower. When she emerged, there was a green light flashing to indicate that she had mail. She pulled on her work clothes, as she had two sewing shifts after breakfast, and headed to the mail-room. They scanned her hand and gave her a package. It was from Owen.

She opened it to find her missing underwear, which made her smile a little, and a note. Pinned to the note was a medal shaped like wings, with the number 37 across it. The note said, “Sorry I didn't see you this morning—had an early briefing. Wear my kill?” She pinned the medal on the collar of her work shirt, and skipped breakfast to watch Fleet One launch. Flames licked at the runway, then vanished into the black. The airlock slowly closed, blocking out the last specks of light that marked the fleet.